


A Battle Story

by Callisto



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tag to 'Deckwatch'.</p><p><i>"You coming in?”</i></p><p><i>Not the warmest invitation he’d ever had, but Starsky reckoned his partner’s manners had been on the go long before Hector had gotten inside his head. And until Hutch’s face had a shade more color and a drop less sweat, he would take him up on it. He stepped inside.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Battle Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kaye and Izzie for the beta.

"You coming in?”

Not the warmest invitation he’d ever had, but Starsky reckoned his partner’s manners had been on the go long before Hector had gotten inside his head. And until Hutch’s face had a shade more color and a drop less sweat, he would take him up on it. He stepped inside.

“Got any food?”

But Hutch had already gone. Pulling off spattered scrubs as he walked, he paused long enough to drop them on the floor before hauling open the fridge with force enough to rattle the bottles lined up in its door.

“Sure. Little creme brulé for dessert, veal parmesan, and some Chablis to wash it all down with.” Hutch handed Starsky the top of his beer bottle on his way to the bathroom. “Knock yourself out.”

And that, Starsky figured, was a cue to leave if ever he’d heard one.

 

Hutch stepped into the shower and wondered why, of all things, his face hurt. The hot spray hit him and he groaned, reluctant to move. He tilted his face into the water and closed his eyes.

 _Cloth tearing, a blade on blood-soaked skin, a hand with a tremor wadding something into a ball, clumsy words of false confidence..._

He opened his eyes. Now he knew why. He concentrated, and unclenched his teeth, one row from the other. He took a step away and reached for the beer on the lip of the bathroom shelf. As he drank he heard a noise and remembered he wasn’t alone.

 _“The other one...’s on your shoulder.”_

 _Blood leaking over the lie._

 _“’S at all?”_

 _“That’s all. Don’t go awa-” A scream. The blade again, another tremor in his hands. “How much time they give you, cop?”_

He scrubbed his face, the blend of Starsky and Hector making his stomach lurch. An hour. He’d’ve had two if Starsky hadn’t glared at him in front of Dobey. He rubbed the shampoo in, hard. An hour. How come he always ended up with an hour? An hour to dig out a bullet with his fingers, a blade held out of reach and over someone else’s skin; an hour to keep a restaurant of people walking around while he held his partner together with napkins. And wasn’t it an hour they’d had in that fucking barn a while back? He switched the water off and heard his breathing, startled by the harshness of it.

He’d gone in cocky as hell, he knew that. In the cab he’d drummed his fingers on the window, impatient to get the débacle started, to get away from all that quiet concern radiating at him from the front seat. Once he’d started to tear the stitches on those blood-gorged pants, though, trouble had snuck up and smacked him out of nowhere.

 _“I had an Uncle Myron, he was in the Battle of the Bulge.”_

And that, stupidly, had been enough. Kneeling there, hearing Starsky’s fabled war story in his head, a sting of sweat had hazed his vision. Cord had become denim, the smell of hay had choked out lavendar, and red-checked tablecloths had danced behind his eyelids whenever he’d squeezed them shut.

By the time Starsky’s legs had dangled over the guttering, he’d had to bite down what it took a second to realize was laughter. Of the hysterical kind. Not only was he having bizarre sensory flashbacks while saving someone not worth spit, but the object of said flashbacks had just appeared. And in denim-clad legs, no less.

He shook the water and image out of his eyes and stepped out. Wrapping a towel around his middle, he moved to the mirror over the sink, vaguely curious. Nothing of the day showed; it seemed hot water and beer really could cure most anything. His jaw still ached, though, and he watched a muscle jump as he made his reflection relax. He turned back for the beer, but he’d finished it.

With a sigh he realized there was nowhere to go but back out there.

***

“What? No Chablis?”

Starsky was reading a newspaper, feet up on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He bent a top corner down so he could see over it.

“Didn’t go with the pastrami.” He flicked the paper back up. “Thought we’d save it for the veal.”

“Promises, promises.”

Starsky said nothing but he heard the scrape of the chair opposite and took heart from the sounds of Hutch tucking into a doorstop-sized wedge of pastrami and cheese on rye. He kept his eyes on the paper. Wouldn’t do to have Hutch think he was being watched. He waited until all munching sounds had ceased, then pulled the top corner down again and chanced a smile.

He got one back.

“Better, then.” A statement, not a question. Hutch had lost that pale sweaty look he’d been wearing most of the afternoon, and in jeans, a dark green T-shirt and a smile, the mess and blood of the afternoon slid away.

Almost. Starsky watched as Hutch's eyes flicked to the spot on the floor where he’d dropped the scrubs.

“Bagged and outside.”

If Hutch was surprised at such intuition he didn’t show it. But Starsky saw his jaw tighten as he nodded and then drank deep from the beer left out for him.

“Hey.”

Hutch put the beer down and wiped the back of a slow hand across his mouth. His eyes stayed on the bottle

“Hey.”

“What?” Hutch loooked up. Not a snap, but not far off.

Ma should see this patience. Aware of the bristle across the table at the smile Hutch was about to misunderstand, Starsky spoke in the same steady voice he’d been using all day.

“The people who matter are walkin’ around, Hutch. Just want to make sure you know that.”

“Yeah? Well, the lowlife I spent an hour on got wasted by you. Time and skills well spent all round, I’d say.”

And there it was, the limit of that patience he’d been so proud of.

“Hey! My time and skills made sure the right body bag came out that house, pal. I ain’t apologizing!”

Inwardly fuming at being so easily provoked, he flicked his paper back up, and made a show of settling back, determined to get his temper under control and not to let Hutch get to him. Shit. He hated how Hutch’s bleakness could do that, could slide under his defences and ignite him. It was hard enough keeping his own head above water, something Hutch sometimes forgot how to do these days. And he'd be damned if he'd swim for two.

After about thirty seconds of reading the same sentence as many times, something pinged his paper in from behind. A bottle top.

He tilted his paper back, careful to keep his face neutral.

Hutch’s hands were out in apology, elbows on the table, a regretful smile on his face. And Starsky knew he would wait and listen, because it wasn’t only despair that slid under; a softening like that could do it, too. He put his paper down flat between them and looked across. He sensed Hutch gathering his thoughts as he watched him pick at the label on his empty beer bottle.

“It's just... It's one helluva thing to finally get proficient at.”

“What? Saving lives?”

Hutch shook his head. “Digging bullets out of people.” He hitched in a breath, the look of unexpected sadness catching at Starsky’s heart. “Know the scary thing about today, Starsk? He had no idea I wasn’t a doctor, even bought the paramedic crap I gave him.” A gruff, almost-laugh. “It seems I’m that good at slicing people open now. Shame it came good on the bad guy, right? Shame it couldn’t’ve come good a couple of years ago in that back room, or last month-”

On instinct, Starsky stretched out a hand and covered the fingers picking at the label, waiting till they stilled. He didn’t let go.

“I ain’t complaining, Hutch.” He waited for Hutch’s eyes to lift, then put all the understanding he could into his own. A person never knew when the demons would come, and Hutch had clearly been visited today. “Like I said, the people that matter are walking around, partner.” He squeezed the cool fingers under his, just once. “And we’re all grateful.” He let go and backed off, standing up to stretch out the kinks as Hutch’s head nodded down.

He bent low, to Hutch’s ear, unable to resist. “’Sides,” he whispered. “You ain’t heard near enough battle stories from me yet. Only time you ever listen to me is when we’re holed up and under fire.”

Hutch’s head bobbed fiercely as a low burst of laughter broke through. “That you volunteering to go first next time we’re cornered?”

Starsky let a grateful hand rest on Hutch’s shoulder and responded in kind. “Only if I’m not in my good jeans.”

And they grinned, one at the other, life and harmony restored through a humor that only got blacker as time marched by and the wounds got deeper.

******


End file.
